


dreams are for people who're sleeping

by hellsscapes



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Watersports, more orgasms than is statistically probable, pharma is here, that deserves its own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:50:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9314273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellsscapes/pseuds/hellsscapes
Summary: “Possession is not love,” philosophers had been known to say. In Pharma’s vaunted opinion, philosophers were idiots. If the two were not synonyms, they were close enough as to make no matter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to hell x10

It was not every day that one woke to find oneself forcibly separated from one’s frame. Given the way his life had been going lately, however, Ratchet was nearly not as surprised as he probably should have been.

Pharma stood before him, his posture purposely grandiose, face bearing that manic, twisted smile that Ratchet had first beheld at Delphi. It held hints of the Pharma that he remembered, warped into some horrid new form by the terrors those wide optics had witnessed.

And there, behind Pharma, was his own alt-mode. It was an out-of-body experience in the truest sense, and Ratchet would be lying if he’d said that he harbored no curiosity about how Pharma had accomplished the separation. He might’ve asked, if he’d expected that the mad mech would provide him any kind of coherent answer. 

Instead, Ratchet narrowed his optics and fixed Pharma with a glare that he hoped held even a fraction of its usual weight. It was a feat to appear threatening when one was little more than a helm and a spark, but if anyone could accomplish it, Ratchet could. 

Pharma quirked an optic ridge, seemingly unimpressed. He took a few steps toward Ratchet, his movements predatory. “Are you trying to _intimidate_ me, Ratchet? I’m afraid it’s been a while since I’ve been afraid of--well-- _anything_ , really! It’s amazing what being in the employ of a crazed Decepticon executioner will do.”

“Pharma, I don’t know what you’re planning--”

“Ah, don’t worry yourself about all that. You’ll find out soon enough, I assure you.”

“Somehow, Pharma, your promises aren’t as trustworthy as they used to be.”

“Luckily, I’ve no need of your _trust_. After all, you’re helpless to do anything about it one way or the other.” 

As uncomfortable as the thought was, Pharma was right-- Ratchet was quite unable to exert any measure of control over the situation. He was utterly unable to provoke any sort of reaction in his frame, try as he might to do so. 

While his focus was elsewhere, trying in vain to move his disconnected appendages, Ratchet failed to notice Pharma closing the gap between them. With a jolt, he suddenly registered the sensation of Pharma’s fingers against his helm as the other mech wrenched his head upwards. 

He cycled his optics, staring into the jarringly blue depths of Pharma’s optics, which were close enough to encompass almost his entire field of view. 

 

“You see, Ratchet,” Pharma whispered, the words low enough that they were little more than a vibration against Ratchet’s plating, “I’ve been thinking about you in my exile. You never really did pay me as much attention as I wanted. But I can be charitable! I’ll forgive you. You were busy, after all; the weight of the Prime’s regard was on your shoulders.”

Ratchet felt a prickling sensation which, if he had to guess, was probably Pharma’s fingers tracing perilously close to the corona of his spark. Revulsion curled through him, hot and bitter, and he wished fervently that he could pull away. “But it’s just the two of us now. Nobody’s coming for you. I’d wager that everyone who arrived with you is already dead, in fact. And if they aren’t, they will be soon. So, for once, it’s just you and me.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Ratchet growled, his processor prickling with ghostly sensations from his missing frame. 

“Oh, but it _is_. Perhaps, with time, you’ll come to see this as an _opportunity_.” 

Ratchet’s only response was a harsh bark of laughter, contempt tinged at the edges with something that might be defined as apprehension.

Pharma pulled back, so that Ratchet could see the smile that twisted his face. “Be like that if you must. It won’t change anything; I, at least, am going to get what I want out of this. To be entirely frank, I don’t care what _you_ get out of it.”

The other medic strode from Ratchet’s field of vision, and try as he might he was unable to turn his head to track Pharma’s movements. Somehow, the medic’s absence was even more difficult to bear. At least when he could see Pharma, he was prepared for whatever the deranged mech attempted. 

Soon enough, Pharma moved back into view. He was holding an unadorned cylinder, whose appearance gave no indication of its purpose. Given that it was in Pharma’s hands, Ratchet doubted that its presence portended anything benign.

Instead of returning to molest his spark again, as Ratchet had rather expected, Pharma approached the slab where his alt-mode rested. He rested the cylinder against the surface, fiddling with it, and after a moment there was a series of mechanical clicks as his alt-mode unfolded back into root mode. 

It was even more unnerving to see his headless frame splayed out before Pharma, and the sight filled him with apprehension. There was no good way for this to end. 

Pharma placed his hands on the slab, one on each side of Ratchet’s immobile frame. Then he looked up, fixing Ratchet with a wild-opticked gaze. “So, what first? Any suggestions?”

“I don’t suppose reassembling my body and letting me walk out of here is an option?”

“You assume correctly,” Pharma purred. 

“I’m afraid I’m fresh out of ideas, then.”

“I’m sure I can come up with something. I’ve had _centuries_ to imagine this moment, after all.”

“Centuries? Didn’t you find anyone else worthy of your attentions in all this time?”

“There was always something _different_ about you, Ratchet. You were a brilliant medic-- not half so brilliant as me, of course, but certainly a league above the rest. Why should I settle for less when I _knew_ that if I gave it enough time, you’d find your way back to me?”

With that, Pharma lifted one of his hands from the slab to trace lightly along the metal of Ratchet’s chassis. To his alarm, Ratchet found that he could feel the sensation perfectly. His optics shot wide. Pharma, apparently having caught the motion, smirked. 

“What, you thought I’d be so cruel as to deprive you of your senses? What fun would that be?”

Privately, Ratchet thought that the whole experience would have been easier to bear if he _hadn’t_ been able to feel any of it. Out loud, all he said was, “How?”

“Trade secret, I’m afraid. Suffice it to say that everything is in working order-- more or less.” 

Ratchet felt a twist of fear at what that “more or less” might mean. 

Pharma returned to stroking a hand up and down Ratchet’s side, his touch feather-light. Ratchet rather doubted that this gentleness would last, if his past experiences with Pharma were anything to go by. Self-control had never really been one of the other medic’s virtues.

Ratchet offlined his optics; having them open wasn’t any help when he couldn’t move, and at any rate the sight of Pharma’s familiar frame leaning over his own was making him rather ill.

Fingers ghosted across his interface array, soft and exploratory at first. Soon enough, though, Pharma was pressing his palm against the panel that housed Ratchet’s valve, grinding down against the metal. 

A strained ex-vent escaped Ratchet’s intake, a visceral reaction, and Pharma seemed to take the sound as an invitation to increase his efforts. He rubbed at Ratchet’s panel, the metal heating under his ministrations. 

Pharma’s other hand had moved to play with the seams at Ratchet’s hips, toying with the wires beneath his plating. Ratchet grit his dentae as his panel slid open against his wishes, his frame deaf to the desires of his processor. 

And then Pharma’s fingers were in his valve, his traitorous calipers gripping the digits eagerly. The sensation was a familiar one, even after all these years, but it was no less despicable for its lack of novelty. 

“Pharma--” he began, intending to make a last, futile attempt to dissuade the mech, but his words were cut off in a rush of static as Pharma’s fingers brushed along a series of nodes. _He_ might not want any part of this, but his frame was ignorant of any objections he might have. 

A rush of lubricant spilled past the lips of his valve, and he heard Pharma hum in satisfaction. “There you go! We can both get something out of this, you see.”

“I don’t want any fragging part of your fantasies.”

“I’m not going to stop,” Pharma said, twisting his fingers in Ratchet’s valve as though to emphasize his point, “so you might as well enjoy it.” 

“Get fragged,” Ratchet growled. Pharma’s grin only widened.

\----

Pharma could hardly believe his luck. Ratchet, here! It was like a dream come true. Not that he had ever really thought that his _dear_ medic wouldn’t come back to him, but Tarn’s ‘care’ did funny things to a mech. 

 

But he had escaped Tarn, after all, and Ratchet had fallen right into his hands! Metaphorically, _and_ literally, he thought with a quiet snicker as he worked his fingers in and out of Ratchet’s valve. 

The grumpy old mech might claim to hate this, but Pharma knew better. Ratchet had only ever accepted pleasure like a martyr going to his death, as though it were a _chore_. But it really couldn’t have been nearly as much of an ordeal as he made it out to be, since Ratchet had kept turning up at his door. 

Ratchet’s calipers rippled around his fingers, trying to pull him in deeper. Pharma shivered, imagining the delicious tightness of that sweet cunt around his spike.

As if responding to his thoughts, his panel clicked open, his spike pressurizing against his chest. From across the room Ratchet made some kind of strangled sound, but Pharma was beyond caring. This was everything he’d been waiting for, and he’d be damned if he was going to let Ratchet’s uncooperative mood ruin it for him. 

He slid himself into the tight heat of Ratchet’s valve, feeling calipers pull hungrily at his spike. Processor spinning at the sensation, he let a moan slip from his vocalizer. Distantly, he heard Ratchet echo the sound. The other mech had apparently given up his earlier protestations, his optics offline and his faceplate flushed as small noises and static spilled from his intake. 

If Pharma had to guess, it had probably been nearly as long for Ratchet as it had been for him. After all, who else would have fragged the old grump? Who but Pharma could have properly _appreciated_ him? 

When he felt that Ratchet had had enough time to adjust, he began to move in earnest. Hands braced on Ratchet’s sturdy hips, Pharma slammed himself into the other medic’s valve. Stars spun behind his optics, threatening to white out his vision. 

He had meant to go slow, at least to begin with, but the gravity of the situation hit him all at once and it was all he could do to maintain any sort of rhythm. It was _Ratchet_ below him, after all; finally, truly Ratchet. 

Ratchet had never been one for softness, anyway; for gentle touches or kind words. He neither expected nor desired a world that was kind. After all, such a thing would have put him out of a job. 

Pharma’s hips pistoned erratically, charge crawling through his lines as his overload built. He offlined his optics, almost able to imagine that Ratchet lay whole before him. Those stolen hands of his would be tied up neatly, unable to mar Pharma’s pristine plating, but his hips would be free to buck up in counterpoint to Pharma’s thrusts, pushing him deeper than he could manage on his own--

There was a staticky sound from across the room as Ratchet’s valve cycled tight in a sudden overload. The sensation pulled Pharma over the edge as well, and he shouted as his spike spilled transfluid into Ratchet’s rippling valve. 

For a moment the room was filled with the echoed sounds of cooling fans taxed to max capacity. Then there was an audible click as Ratchet rebooted his vocalizer.

“Have I mentioned that I hate you?”

“Not in so many words, no.”

“I don’t suppose you’re done?”

Pharma hummed, sliding a finger through the transfluid that had managed to slip through the seams of Ratchet’s still-closed spike panel. 

“I really don’t think I am. It was so much trouble to get you here, after all.”

He slid himself free of Ratchet’s valve, leaving the orifice to spill a mixture of lubricants and transfluid onto the slab. Ratchet himself had subsided into an ornery silence.

An alert from Pharma’s HUD alerted him that his waste-fluid tanks were nearing capacity, something he had quite managed to forget about given all the recent excitement. He could, of course, leave to deal with the matter; but he was already _here_ , and in any case his departure would certainly ruin the _mood_. 

So, instead, he slipped his cock back into Ratchet. And then, after a moment of situating himself, he began to piss. Already full of transfluid, there was hardly any room in Ratchet’s valve and the waste fluid seeped out around Pharma’s spike, running in streams down his legs. 

The sight of Ratchet perfectly despoiled, leaking Pharma’s fluids, was more arousing than he had expected, and it was with a new fervor that Pharma began to fuck the prone mech. Each thrust displaced a new deluge that splattered across the slab and the top of Pharma’s thighs. He came for a second time, shuddering as the aftershocks rolled through him. 

He collapsed, strutless, against Ratchet. Slowly, he became aware that Ratchet was speaking, and had in fact probably been for a while now. It took another few moments for his fuzzed processor to decipher the words.

“-- _disgusting_ ; the minute you reassemble me I’m going to find you and--”

“And _what_ , exactly? Honestly, Ratchet, _this_ is where you draw the line?”

“I don’t want your damn _fluids_ in me, you self-concerned fragger!”

“It’s a problem of position, then? Because, I assure you, I can be _flexible_ ,” Pharma purred, sliding his fingers along the plating of Ratchet’s inner thigh until they caught on the manual release for Ratchet’s spike panel. 

Ratchet’s spike pressurized into Pharma’s waiting hand, and Pharma set to stroking it with a single-minded devotion. His other hand crept down towards Ratchet’s valve, rubbing insistently at his anterior node. 

When Pharma glanced up again, Ratchet’s expression had shifted from irritation to rapture, his lips parted slightly and his optics unfocused. Pharma tightened his grip, smiling at the staticked moan that the motion dragged from Ratchet’s vocalizer. 

When he felt the other mech’s overload approaching, preceded by an uptick in desperate noises and the clattering of overworked cooling fans, Pharma pulled away. Ignoring the string of obscenities the action provoked, Pharma clambered atop the slab, bracing himself with his knees on either side of Ratchet’s frame.

Ratchet went suddenly quiet as Pharma’s dripping valve hovered over his straining spike. Pharma arched his back, rubbing at his node. He quirked an optic ridge at Ratchet, whose gaze was fixed on his array. Ratchet glanced up, flushing when he noticed Pharma’s attention.

“I don’t know what you expect to gain from this,” Ratchet growled, “actually, I-- _Pharma!_ ” 

Pharma, having grown tired of Ratchet’s continued grousing, had dropped himself onto Ratchet’s spike, taking him to the base. The sudden stretch was painful, but he soon adjusted. He began to bounce on Ratchet’s cock, haphazard motions grinding nodes against receptors and sending a rush of pleasure cascading through his sensornet. 

Given how close Ratchet had already been to overload, it was only a few moments before he was coming, pumping Pharma full of thick transfluid. Pharma moaned, not quite at his own peak, but Ratchet was already softening inside of him and that was hardly going to help things along. 

Pharma reached down to slide his hand along Ratchet’s plating until he found the area where Ratchet’s waste tanks were housed. Ratchet growled, but Pharma paid him no mind as he pressed down. 

Ratchet mewled as his waste tanks suddenly let go, his spike spilling hot piss into Pharma’s eager valve. Pharma moaned, utterly full, and overloaded with a harsh jerk of his hips. He sat for a moment, vents blasting hot air, as his wrecked valve dripped its contents over Ratchet’s chassis. 

When he looked up, he was surprised to find that Ratchet hadn’t taken the opportunity to start swearing again. Instead, the medic’s optics were offline and he seemed almost… peaceful. Pharma was inclined to think that he’d been knocked into recharge. 

Pharma slid down, Ratchet’s spike sliding from him with a slick sound. He considered closing his panels but really, what was the point? His thighs and chest were already coated with copious fluids, and it wasn’t as if he had any dignity left to preserve. 

He made his way over to Ratchet, resting gentle fingers against the side of his face. When Ratchet didn’t stir, he surmised that he’d been right about the other mech having been offlined. Well, it made no matter. He’d awaken soon enough, and Pharma would still be here. 

Pharma leaned down, pressing his lips softly against the other medic’s. It didn’t matter that Ratchet was being his usual ornery self. He’d come around, in time. He’d appreciate what Pharma was doing for him.

After all, they had nothing but time.


End file.
